Chapter 4

The weekend slipped through Cassandra’s fingers like sand, and by the time Monday’s pale sunrise filtered through the curtains, she was already slipping out of the house. Thomas still slept, curled in their bed like a boy at peace. Cassandra kissed his forehead but did not wake him—he detested early alarms. Instead, she crept into the kitchen, assembled a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs with wilted spinach and crisp bacon, plated fragrant fried rice on a warmed dish, and tucked a little yellow Post-it beneath the stainless-steel cloche: “Good morning. I’m no chef, but I cooked breakfast. – Honey.” She silenced her own guilty hesitation—she would never admit she missed him while she was away—and left the steaming meal on the table.

Moments later, she was behind her desk at Benzon Advertising, smoothing the papers in the inbox. She half–smiled as David Benzon, their boss, strolled by. His dark hair was ruffled, his navy suit impeccable. In the past, he had paused to fuss over